Baby It's Cold Outside (TSA Tournament: Elensa Jari VS Antherion)

[Darth Ferus]

​

​

Freezing at night. Freezing in the morning. Freezing in the summer, freezing in the winter. It was freezing everywhere, at all times. Such was the natural state of Hoth. The few species that lived on this world were covered in fur. Wampas, Tauntauns, they lived hiding from the night and blizzards in caves to stay warm and hunting by the day to survive. Outsiders to this planet often had to be dressed in many layers of warm clothing, and always had to pay attention to how cold it may get. Otherwise, they freeze.

It was on this desolate world that two Sith would be dropped. [member="Elensa Jari"] and [member="Antherion"] . They were dropped in the frozen wasteland with thick enough clothing they wouldn't freeze instantly, but prolonged time out in the open regardless of the time of day would prove deadly. The only weapon they would have is their saber, and it would almost look like it was a trial of beating the foe before they froze. A blizzard that was beginning as they stepped off the ramps would make it hard to find one another.

But, even on such a cold world heat was a possibility. Thermal vents close to the surface offered a source a heat, enough to survive the blizzard, but they posed the danger of lava. Two extremes, heat and cold, were all the Sith would face here. Could they find that medium and survive to defeat one another? Or would one fall before they could even clash?

 

[Elensa Jari]

| [member="Antherion"] | [member="Krest"] |​

Cold.

There was no other way to describe this cursed planet. You could not speak of the utter blankness, the serene white landscapes everywhere you looked. You could not talk about the refreshing feel of the air as it brushed past your face, encouraging you to stay conscious no matter how tired you might feel. You could not speak of the soft crunch of snow beneath your feet. All such thoughts were wiped away by the most persistent one: how cold it is here! Any semblance of other reasonable thought was ever pushed aside by that sensation.

For those that might have hoped for the sensation of cold to go away...that in truth would be worse than the cold. It bit into the skin and set every nerve aflame, ironically, but as tortuous as that was, it could not be worse than what might happen if that were to suddenly cease. For the body to become numb to the cold, for the pain to cease, this was more dangerous than any sensation. With loss of sensation comes loss of function. You might lose a finger or toe to the frost. Gangrene might set in without medical care, and it was but a short stop there to death. You cannot look here and see a serene environment. You must look upon it and see only death.

Elensa had made sure to dress appropriately: a form-fitting bodyglove that extended from toes to neck, thick and warm against her skin, over which were water-resistant thermals, treated such that water would run right off them, and snow would not stick for long. She had eschewed her usual veil, exchanging it for a fur-lined hood that went over her head, and a flap that could be fastened to cover the lower half of her face, each exhalation of breath warming her face every so slightly. Gloves covered her slender hands, leaving only her dark blue eyes exposed, though with the storm as it was, she could see little. This place demanded that you use senses other than those most obvious.

Her right hand gripped the long stave that constituted her lightsaber pike, the spike attached to the bottom able to firmly anchor into the snow, helping her move a little more steadily than she might have otherwise, even with the cleats on the soles of her boots. It was best to keep her weapon to hand: her purpose here was to do battle with another, one who would undoubtedly seek to take her life with alacrity, if only so that they might both get off this cursed planet. My death secures his life. That was ever the way the Sith sought to do business: you bought your survival with superiority.

The energies here were not nearly as potent as on other worlds she was familiar with: there was but a smattering of life, so the energies of the Force were not nearly as strong as might be found elsewhere. The faint thread of it whispered softly to her, though, the Hapan knowing well enough that there was another like her, seeking shelter, seeking opposition, seeking an end to the torment this place offered. The Force would tell her when he approached, and she would then have to put an end to him. Otherwise it will be my corpse left to freeze on this Force-forsaken orb, she thought darkly. That much could not be borne: when he opponent made himself known, it would be her duty to make quick work of him.

If either of us survive the cold. That wasn't something she could take for granted, either.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

How convenient, that Antherion's hands always shook slightly when he tried to move them, as here on Hoth that seemed to be the norm. He could hardly feel the difference. Why? Because he could hardly feel his hands at all, naturally. He glowered at the departing shuttle. There was adversity, the norm amongst the Sith, but this was not adversity, this was a war unto itself. A battle of death and a battle of survival. A three way duel: Antherion, whoever his foe-to-be was, and Hoth itself.

Right now, Hoth was winning. Antherion was naturally thin, naturally frail, and his body often felt like a half-rotted carcass that he only moved by virtue of his will, the Force's will, and a fair bit of luck. An hour could take his movement, several could rob him of his life. His mind moved faster than his husk ever could, assessing the certain death that awaited him if he chose to go to his enemy. So he chose to let his enemy come to him.

Thrusting his hand downwards, a swirl of telekinetic Force kicked kicked what snow he could clear away, down to the ice and rock that was the solidity of Hoth, the only thing serving as a reminder that this was not some snowball that one could sink into and be swallowed by. Not that it was any more comforting to know this. Death lurked nearby, close to the surface, the buried bones of the weak, the frozen mummies of those who surrendered to the endless night.

That was not the Sith way. Taking a crosslegged seat, Antherion focused his will outwards. Snow and ice began to settle, not on his form, but around it, creeping upwards, as he moved with steady delicacy and as much haste as possible, sculpting powder and slush together on an invisible dome that would serve as his shelter. Within the minute, its outline was visible. A few more, and it would begin to take shape.

Then, a cold wind of particular strength lanced through to Antherion, and he fell backwards. The ice and snow fell downwards towards him, promising a painful, hypothermic demise. It stopped all too close to him, a distance not of several feet, but little more than six inches, leaving no room for the motion of his arms or legs. Merely a still, upwards gaze.

This... will suffice.

Closing his eyes, Antherion centered his breathing, bringing the matter closer to him and making it solid enough to hold its shape against the wind. He inhaled and exhaled. The Shapers were brutish primitives, but their approach offered a manner of practicality to be certain. He breathed out, a swirl of sparks issuing from his lips, as he focused on drawing heat into him and maintaining it, focused on cycling air in and out of the prison he had made for himself.

While his foe hunted through the excruciating, harsh environ to find him, he would be exactly where he wanted to be. Buried alive, reaching out for air in a pocket that was quickly growing more and more solid as he gazed upwards, watching the reflection of his eyes fade as sparkling white gave way to the deepening darkness of the lightless underground.

| [member="Elensa Jari"] | [member="Krest"] |

 

[Elensa Jari]

| [member="Antherion"] | [member="Krest"] |​

The swirl of energies intensified, something that became readily apparent in an environment where one's senses were dulled moreso than usual: there was nothing to hear but the rush of the wind, nothing to see but the bright whiteness, blinding as it reflected the dim light of the local sun, nothing to feel but biting cold trying to make its way through the padded layers of her garments. The Force was not as strong here as it had been on other worlds that she had visited, but the inert nature of it made the ebbs and flows easier to detect, the way you might notice a pattern of raindrops on your skin.

That her opponent had been dropped off was unequivocal: they liked to ensure that both started around the same time, so each one had to overcome their environment and adjust to their circumstances in the same haze. The sedatives had worn off rapidly as her body felt shock at the change of environment, adjusting rapidly in order to stave off a more permanent sleep. The adrenaline flowed through her veins with something akin to panic, her heart beating quickly, a rhythm all of her own. Yes, whoever it was had no doubt experienced something similar to the young woman, and that much put her on her guard: they might already be hunting for her.

The changes in that energy flow was their first mistake, however: in a normal environment, where life existed in quantity, and where beings of varying sensitivity existed, it would be normal for the Force to fluctuate, as each being left their imprint upon it. Here, with few creatures capable of surviving, those energies were thinner, but all the more obvious. What he could feel was a true channelling: one trained that was drawing upon the Force and using it to their whims. And that means another of my kind. Yes, there was a Force User out there, and they were clearly not afraid of her realising it.

Her pike stabbed down at the packed snow at her feet, using it to pull herself along. With a snowdrift like this, she knew it would only be a matter of time before it became too difficult to walk. Shelter would have normally been a priority, but without food or water, her only chance was to catch up with her soon-to-be opponent and dispatch him before exhaustion and hunger set in. That meant moving, and quickly. That the Sith had provided her with good-quality equipment for the purposes of this encounter suggested that they had a similar thought in mind.

She paused for a moment, exhaling a deep breath, one which might have produced a fog of water vapour had her face not been covered, but which warmed her face as it struck the colder surface of her skin. Her every sense screamed at her to keep moving, but losing her composure here might be as fatal as the frost. The swirl of Force energies told her that her enemy was close - not close enough to see, but close enough to detect. She sighed softly, then raised a hand, her eyes closing for a moment, her concentration elsewhere for but a little while.

Energies cascaded into her, drawn from the atmosphere outside of herself, then projected outwards in turn, converted into a newer form, using her body as the catalyst and her mind as the will behind it. A kinetic bubble formed around her, invisible but for a faint distortion of the air, then rapidly expanded outwards, becoming thinner and formless, pushing aside the snow that moved to strike her, then vanishing entirely, a simple ripple that distorted the snow in a circle around her.

Now you know that I'm here, too, she thought coldly, knowing that her opponent would feel her manipulation of the Force just as surely as she had sensed his. You can't hide forever. Come out and play.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

As Antherion sat there, vaguely aware of his own presence, his mind focused very much inwards, he became aware of a fact. An inconvenient fact, like so many, but indisputable: if he could use the Force to shield and sustain himself from the climate, his opponent could as well. Several meters away, a sculpted facade of snow such that the Hapani could walk over his location and the only clue would be the whisperings of her own mind and senses, warning her of the presence of hostile Force. His hope was that he could wait, let the environment wreak havoc on her, and descend like a vulture when she was merely a quivering, frostbitten thing already half-dead, but hope so seldom aligns with reality.

That is, unless he focused to make his hopes into realities. He could reach outwards and interfere, but it would break his concentration on cycling fresh air into his pocket -- as such, he would need to make his action swift and decisive. Closing his eyes, he channeled outwards the power of his mind, sensing for her, and locking on to the sensation of manipulated Force. With the sound around him muted, and the light shut out, it was all the easier to leave the physical behind for the immaterial.

The attack was mental, occurring at the speed of thought. There was a man standing on the horizon -- and he was that man. And she saw that man, and that man was not there. A visual trap, sprung by the act of looking at it, acting on the senses. To look at the illusion, chase that illusion, attack that illusion, to see it and accept the reality of his presence on the horizon was to take large or small steps into unreality. The phantom ignited a crimson lightsaber, stepping backwards, preparing to flee.

Would she give chase?

| [member="Krest"] | [member="Elensa Jari"] |

 

[Elensa Jari]

| [member="Antherion"] |​

​

A man in the distance, dark against the pure-white snow, visible to her eyes when few things were easy to see in the odd gloom that the weather cast over the planet. The cloaks were dark enough to be thought of as 'overcast', but ice and snow were all they would offer, so they were brighter than the stormy rainclouds she was used to. There was a level of strange luminosity to this place, but so much so that a being in darker clothing would stand out like a scar on unblemished skin.

Her dark blue eyes narrowed, and her gloved hand gripped the metallic shaft of her weapon that much more tightly, knowing that she would need to use it before long. A finger curled around the activation stud that would ignite the glowing purple blade that would emit from one end of the pike, a simple depression being all that she would need. Her adversary had found her, perhaps drawn to the use of the Force that she had so blithely engaged in, bringing him to her like flies to dead flesh. A crimson blade flashed into being, held by the one facing her, and she knew she was just a few moments away from a fight that might end up with her own red blood staining the snow.

The being took a step backwards: first one, then another. That is odd. Perhaps he was trying to draw her in, force her to approach and step into a concealed trap or some other subterfuge that would offer her adversary the advantage. But Sith don't run from combat, she reflected. True, the newer Acolytes among the hierarchy might think it better to flee than to face down an enemy that might prove lethal, but there were two things clear here: there was no getting off this planet without battle being done, and no Acolyte worthy of a lightsaber would even consider retreat. So there's something not right here.

Advancing a few steps forward, her pike no longer used as a walking staff, but rather held in both hands across her body, a weapon rather than an aide, the blonde watched her adversary with unblinking eyes, knowing that even a moment of broken contact might be an advantage awarded to one who sought her submission. The other retreated again, keeping the distance between them. But there aren't any footprints in the snow. That was interesting - very interesting.

Eyes narrowed further, she glared at what she now understood to be the very trap she was waiting for. An opponent visually observed would draw attention: easier than one heard, or even smelled, for it was an overt thing that could be directly observed, rather than suspected. But illusions are flawed weapons unless you account for every detail. The figure was well-crafted, she had to admit: clothing, appearance, stance, even the steps were lifelike, perfectly detailed. Even the crunch of impact made with each step is excellent. That had been the giveaway, though: she could hear snow compacted beneath a boot, but when the figure stepped back, there was no evidence that it had done so. Which makes this all part of an illusion.

Her Master had taught her something of those, and used them to considerable effect as a means of putting someone off from approaching. Elensa's own acuity with such was minimal, but prolonged exposure had taught her enough to know one when she saw it - as she did now. A faint, cold smile curved her lips, a moment when sensation of the cold was banished by the warmth of her amusement. He was clever, this one that would seek her life, patient and cunning. You can't hope for a better adversary than one who hopes you use your own weaknesses against you. Even though she might kill him, she would first learn from him: take his lessons, and then perhaps his life. That was as it should be.

Lightsaber Pike twirling in her hands, she spun the staff a full hundred-and-eighty-degrees and pressed the activation stud, a purple bar of energy extending from the shaft and stabbing into the snow. With painstaking care, she drew a single line in front of her feet, the plasma spitting softly as it made contact with the snow that melted away or was vaporised into a soft white steam on contact. Finished, she turned the pike the right way up, holding it before her in a ready stance.

The message was clear enough: You're not fooling anyone with your games, she thought, though it was distinctly possible that the caster of the illusion was not able to see her, or know what she was doing. If you want to play, come out and we'll do this together.

What better way for a battle to be fought?

 

[Ras'kala'han]

If you want to play, come out and we'll do this together.

Was this an invitation to fight? Or perhaps the foe simply wished to have a companion while they both froze to death. As clear-eyed perception crumbled his illusion into misty nothingness, his hopes to resolve the conflict at the speed of thought were lost entirely. Moreover, his lapse in concentration meant that his cultivated air pockets had filled with water, and each breath in the icy tomb he had built for himself grew increasingly stale. Another mental attack would be against a raised guard, and she would need only drag it out to stymie his concentration -- and his life -- with simple suffocation. No, their engagement would be on the physical plane.

So be it.

Pushing with both hands towards the ceiling of his frosty grave, the snow above him and as much blanketing the battlefield as he could lift exploded upwards, a blasting cloud of white. Rising from his prone position as if pulled upwards from rest by a string, Antherion steeled himself and began walking at a painful lope, remaining moving to avoid being pinpointed in the cloud of white.

His left hand, he kept raised above his head, holding the snow in place and disturbing the wind currents around him, keeping him at the eye of a lazily moving whirlwind of blinding snow, blocking physical sight for both him and the acolyte. Tines of lightning arced between the fingers of his right hand as he conjured motes of searing ball lightning. In a steady rhythm, he conjured one, sent it whirring towards his foe at a shaped, irregular angle, and repeated the pattern, intending to ensure that no one attack approached from the same angle twice.

| [member="Elensa Jari"] | [member="Krest"] |

 

[Elensa Jari]

| [member="Antherion"] | [member="Krest"] |​

The weather was becoming even more inclement by the moment: a slush of rain and snow that torrented down upon them from the skies, unrelenting, remorseless, caring not for their comfort or safety. Visibility was reduced to a minimum, but the Force was there to compensate: where one sense was compromised, the others would remain functional. Elensa could sense that there was an emergence: her opponent was done hiding, as she'd hoped, and was ready to engage her. She wasn't sure what made her certain of that, but it felt undeniable to her now.

The first blast of electricity hit her with undeniable force, jarring her nerves, sending her muscles into spasm and shock, her fine motor control and any sense of coherent thought blasted away as it made contact, coming out of nowhere to strike her with obliterative force. Her pike deactivated as her hand shook against the activation stud, but she was able to hold firmly onto it, collapsing to her knees but managing to stay upright, at least until the second blast hit her.

It felt like an ion bolt, something with the sort of force that might be directed against a starship to short out the electronic systems aboard. Shields, engines, weapons, sensors, even life support would be rendered inoperable. The energy involved was lower, but no less potent as far as it felt to her. Electrical energy twitched along every muscle, causing uncontrollable spasms that collapsed her legs out from under her, and she struck the soft snow in a tangle of skirts, her boots losing all purchase on the snow, even as the metallic cleats sought to retain their grip. Her pike fell next to her as she collapsed, landing with a soft thump against the ground.

She inwardly cursed, though remained unable to verbalise such a thing, directing her anger more to herself than to her opponent. Of course they would use lightning. It was an all-too-common weapon of the Sith, almost as iconic as the lightsabers they wielded. It made sense to choose such a technique here - moreso now that she had proven that she had no counter to it. If I get out of this, I'll have to resolve that failing, she noted inwardly. If only she could get to her feet...

 

[Ras'kala'han]

When one was forced to use the, well, Force to sense, it was a trade-off. The location of the enemy was revealed to him, but her emotional state, her posture, all the subtle cues that could be derived from sight were now translated into the untranslatable. He could sense anger, yes, but when wasn't such a being angry? So rather than wasting time divining the rippling colors of sound that were emanating from the Sith Acolyte's aura, he merely made note of one fact — she had stopped moving. The faint thud of her fall had been masked by howling wind, but some things could not entirely be hidden.

And so, he let go of his grip on the atmosphere. The blizzard ceased its unnatural whirling, and the noise dimmed to the quiet thrum that it once was, the snow did not rise but rather drifted in its quiet, endless insistence. And suddenly, he could see the figure -- a vaguely feminine, warmly-dressed humanoid, prone.

With his mind, he touched the deep and roiling font of darkness within him. Four thousand years of nightmares and forgotten prophecies, and all the pain and resentment that a corpse could muster. From that shadowy crevice of his consciousness, he drew what he needed and unleashed stillness upon his foe.

The frail man, the seeming youth, motioned with both of his shaking hands, curling them into fists as he pantomimed ripping away invisible fabric covering his enemy. In a circle around her, the snow would begin to melt, but it would remain crisp and cool at her feet, if anything growing more solid. The noise would drain away into silence as the energies that bore the wind to howl abandoned the sphere that surrounded her. Even at the edges of her being, shadowy claws of mental force would be prying to try and reach into her very body and make it give up what little warmth burned within it.

Regarding her, curious and aware, Antherion gazed with golden eyes, shining bright. His oppressive presence hung over the battlefield darker than the clouded sky, pressing downwards, its blackness as pure as the white of Hoth's shining snow.

| [member="Elensa Jari"] | [member="Krest"] |

 

[Elensa Jari]

| [member="Antherion"] | [member="Krest"] |​

​

The blizzard seemed to die down, and she felt suddenly as though a blanket was being wrapped around her, cocooning her body in a fashion designed to numb the senses even more thoroughly than the cold around her, such that Elensa felt somewhat detached even from her own body, as though she were some passive observer that was able to note what was happening to her with a calm sense of disembodiness. It was an eerie sensation, one she couldn't put a name to. Around her, she noticed that the snow that had piled up sufficiently to elevate her from the icy ground beneath was suddenly becoming liquid: melting as though a great pressure or heat were being steadily applied to it. And yet it's not me doing that.

That the surging pains were no longer assailing her limbs become suddenly noticeable: the absence of a tingling fire within her nerves struck at her mind, and she realised she was free of the paralysing assault that had rendered her vulnerable. True, she still felt like someone had slammed into her body with a landspeeder, but pain was the birthright of every Sith, and she would truly be unworthy of her attempts to claim such a title for herself if she were inclined to succumb to such a thing now. I can hurt later, when my enemy is no longer a problem.

Even so, it felt like someone was pressing a weight against her chest, as though to stop her breathing, and the Hapan felt mildly light-headed. Perhaps she was more tired then she had thought, her energies little restored by the bout of unconsciousness that she had endured in order to be brought here. It was almost like something was siphoning off what vitality remained to her, stripping it away so that she might be left a shell of her former self.
Actually, that's exactly what this feels like.

There were many things about the Force she knew herself to be ignorant of, and reflecting on it in a detached fashion, she knew this was no natural fatigue. If it's Force energy you want, allow me to give you a helping hand, she thought darkly, her anger stoked by the subtle, potent assault she knew herself to now be a victim of. What other explanation is there? Well, if her opponent wanted to play games, take her energy for themselves, she would offer more than they might handle.

Using her pike to come to her feet, one hand gripping the stave tightly and pulling against it as it stood firm in the melting snow, the young woman stood, painfully and with difficulty, her muscles not yet entirely under her control, softly spasming as the electricity that had flowed through her body sought to render her useless. Fighting for that simple control, she found herself raging against such petty restraints, knowing that the one at fault had but to pay for such an affront. As she became surer of her stance, the blonde turned, seeking out her enemy, that she might offer her compliments directly.

There he stood: she could see him now, eyes glittering in the gloom, regarding her with what appeared to be a dispassionate expression. Let me share my passion with you, then. Her hand released the grip on her lightsaber pike, the purple blade extinguishing into nothingness as it dropped into the snow at her side. She drew both hands into the centre of her body, fingers moving rapidly as she drew symbols in the air, something she had been forced to spend endless hours practising, until the motions became natural to her, second-nature. Energy weaved between her fingertips as she summoned the Force around her, shaped by her will, simple tendrils combining to form a ball of dark ethereal power.

Sighting her adversary, she raised her hands, dragging the energies with her, then pushed them out towards him, relinquishing the energy, which fired from her fingertips as though shot from a projectile weapon, accelerating forward with each nanosecond that passed. The young woman swayed on her feet, dropping to her knees, exhaling a sharp breath as her fingers curled around the staff that had dropped to the snow. The oppressive technique her enemy used was stunning to her now, and each breath exhaled was harder to reach for. There wouldn't be much time left, if it persisted.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Antherion's impassive expression curled into a smile as she rose, as she fought. This one was a hateful child, limned in the power of her own ever-intensifying anger. She was a killer and survivor... perhaps, she might live through this encounter. If that was so, she would merit his later attention, perhaps even his admiration or stewardship. He was in need of fellow predators and allies in the Galaxy... he had a web to build up from nothingness.

That would not be a privilege he would simply grant. It was something she would need to take by force.

He extended a hand as the bolt of furious, seething energy burned its way through the air towards him, and met it with his palm. For a moment, the collision resulted in a sort of stalemate, wisps of ash-black smoke rising up from their meeting point with a hiss. Antherion closed his fist around the purple fire and it vanished from sight.

He closed his eyes tightly, his entire body bending slightly backwards as his mouth opened slightly in a wordless expression of pain. The energy, as he absorbed it, shot through his veins like fire. His palm was raw and red, and while the woman may have felt like she was freezing, he felt as though one slip in control was all he needed to immolate. He opened his eyes and straightened himself, drawing in the power that he had been siphoning and waving away from her, and for a moment he was still, centered in the Force, and coursing with power.

Pointing one finger at her, he channeled the writhing, fiery anger that he had taken within himself towards the woman, his own emotions remaining the roiling and cold sea that they always were. Her own power, and then his own power channeled alongside it. The wave of darkness rose like a tidal surge, a cloud of inky black racing towards her, seeking to swallow her whole and immerse her in an energy anathema to life, to rational thought, to matter and the natural state of the Force. If she survived as more than skin draped loosely over a skeleton, gibbering to itself in madness as its organs crumbled to dust, she would be worthy.

| [member="Krest"] | [member="Elensa Jari"] |

 

[Elensa Jari]

| [member="Antherion"] | [member="Krest"] |​

Her enemy stood before her now, his features more evident to her now than they had been a few moments ago. They were no longer playing with one-another, no longer playing hard-to-get, but rather engaging in a confrontation that would end only when one of them stood victorious, and when the other felt the bitter sting of submission, or perhaps even the icy embrace of death. Elensa watched as the male extended a hand, palm upwards, a warding gesture that felt cocooned in energies, magnified as her attack struck his defenses. Any moment now, and he will be mine to subjugate. A faint smile curved her red lips as sudden exhilaration surged through her, the moment of success to hand.

He did not fall in the way that she had anticipated, did not collapse writhing to the ice as her anger ripped through his flesh, her rage magnified in energetic assault through the Force. No, instead he stood, intent, focused, the energy from her attack barraging him and yet slowly being sucked away as though something was leeching from it, taking every last ounce of exquisite agony it might have conveyed, and rendering it inert. No, not inert - a weapon that has gone from mine to his. The young woman started as she realised what he had done, something she had not thought possible.

The icy white sleet that surged around them was obscured suddenly: the more energy that her opponent leeched from her spell, the darker the shadows around him became, a sudden tenebrosity that sprang up out of nowhere, whispering around him in fumes deeper than any smoke. With a surge of energy, they moved from him and sought her out, reaching for her with tendrils of shadow, too fast for her to retreat and find safety. She had no choice but to allow the darkness to swallow her.

There were whispers, voices in the dark, incoherent at first, but oppressive, too many, pressing upon her consciousness in a way that made her feel as though someone were pushing through her temples with small icepicks, thousands of stabbing needles reaching through her skull. Still on her knees, Elensa released her grip on her weapon, clutching at her head, desperate to seek some relief to the pain that was surging into her. The voices were louder, so loud, offering her no respite, none of her customary silence, so that within it all, the only voice that was silent was her own, though had she the ability to scream, she was certain she would have.

Collapsing further onto the ice, her legs giving way entirely, the young woman sprawled onto her back. The whispering was a shout now, intense, unrelenting, an agony she could not communicate and had merely to endure. She knew she could move, but summoning sufficient control over her thoughts to do it seemed beyond her at the moment. Whatever he had done to her, Elensa knew that she was at his mercy now. The thought angered her beyond anything she had felt in some time, but there was no time for fury to manifest: staying conscious and sane was enough of a battle at the moment.

Her adversary would simply have to wait until it was over.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

The hobbled Sith gestured idly. The discarded saber pike flew to his hand, and he wrapped shaking fingers around cold steel. Did he want to finish the job? No, not at all. This was just the beginning, why would he ever want to bring something so intriguing to an end? No. In what was perhaps pure necessity, or perhaps some sort of sublime mockery, Antherion was using the woman warrior's weapon as a cane to limp over to the prone figure.

Rather than part the cloud of darkness that enveloped the woman, or disperse it to allow for safe passage, he simply stepped into it. This was not some foreign, alien thing to him -- these were his own powers, externalized. What could take shape within him, or without him at his will. Not himself, but of himself, and separate from himself but still united with it.

To put it simply, as far as Antherion was concerned, he was the darkness. As far as the darkness was concerned, it was Antherion. Painfully, he knelt next to the acolyte, a smile on his face as he gazed at her helpless agony. In her moment of weakness, she knew not how strong she was.

"We will meet again. To that end, I command you: live." Touching her forehead briefly, an gesture of curiosity, or perhaps to merely underscore her helplessness, he rose up and dropped the pike next to her, leaving it on the ground, leaving her to her suffering in the web of shadows he had woven around her. It was to her to disperse it, to her to survive, to rouse herself and make her way to safety and shelter, as it was for him to provide these things for himself. The vaporous emanation, without its master to urge it on, curdled and condensed, until it enclosed around her as an ellipsoid of heavy fog, still, a tyrant's cocoon.

As Antherion began to make his way out into the icy wastes, he did so with the confidence that what emerged would be stronger than what entered it. Or dead. He began to disappear into the storm as he made a slow and steady path, the icy precipitate painting away his footprints to leave something as blank, smooth, and immaculate as his own spirit.

| [member="Elensa Jari"] | [member="Krest"] |